


Sigh No More

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rafa walks away, and Novak doesn't. <i>The Godfather</i> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sigh No More

Relief hits Novak like a punch to the gut when he spots Rafa, finally, wandering along outside the theatre with his arm around some girl’s waist. Novak ignores the traffic behind and eases the car alongside the curb just ahead of them, and when they level with the car he leans over and opens the passenger-side door and says, "Rafa."

Rafa hears Novak before he sees him: Novak can see that in the sharp, brief shock of tension across his shoulders, but he’s schooled to impassivity by the time he turns to meet Novak. 

"Long time no see," Novak says, and to the dark haired, very beautiful girl at Rafa’s side he says, "It’s nice to meet you. I’m an old friend of Rafa’s."

"What do you want," Rafa cuts across before the girl can make any reply, sharp enough to make a couple of passers by turn to see what the fuss is. Attention is the last thing Novak needs right now.

"I need to talk to you," Novak says. "Will you come with me?"

"No," says Rafa. "You know I –"

"I _know_ ," says Novak. "But I really need you to just listen to me for once and get in the car."

"No," says Rafa. 

"Rafa," says Novak. "I’m – this is serious."

"Is not my problem anymore, I don’t want to hear about it," Rafa says, turning away, pulling the girl with him, and Novak grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn bloodless and says, "Look, they got Roger, okay?"

Rafa turns, and Novak knows he has him. 

"Get in the car," he says, again, and this time Rafa does.

-

"Who’s the girl?" Novak asks, to break the quiet.

"Xisca," says Rafa, and offers nothing more.

Novak tries, "So, you’ve been seeing her a while?"

"We’re engaged," Rafa says. He’s looking out the passenger side window, and Novak swallows and says, "Hey, congratulations. That’s great."

Rafa doesn’t say anything. Novak glances over, but Rafa’s still staring out of the window, cast in sharp shadow and hidden behind the still too-long fall of his hair.

Then Rafa says, "Take me to the hospital."

Novak shakes his head. "I have to take you to the house first. Orders."

"Take me to the hospital," says Rafa.

"Listen," Novak says, feeling the first bite of anger. "You _left_. You’re outside. You don’t give me orders. I’m taking you to the house."

He looks over and Rafa stares back at him, implacable as only he can be. Novak sighs and smacks the steering wheel lightly with the palm of his hand. 

"Hospital," he says, defeated. "Right."

-

The hospital is dark and quiet when Novak eases the car against the curb. 

"You didn’t put any guys here?" Rafa says, peering up at the unguarded entrance.

"I guess they’re inside," says Novak.

"They should be outside," Rafa says, irritably, slamming the car door when he gets out, and Novak rolls his eyes and follows. All the same it itches at him that Rafa’s right, there _should_ be guys outside.

The unease increases when they get inside, climbing the stairs and the only sounds are the wet soles of their shoes squeaking on the linoleum and, distant, the eerie sound of a stuck record, warning _tonight, tonight, tonight_. Down the hall from Roger’s room there’s a table, a book splayed open on it and the chair pushed back, like whoever was sat there cleared off in a hurry.

"This isn’t right," Novak says.

"Call the house," says Rafa, but he isn’t looking at Novak – Novak follows the line of his sight down the corridor, to the door pushed ajar, a little dim lamplight spilling out onto the cold institutional floor.

"Go check on him," Novak says, and Rafa swallows and nods once, tightly, and goes. Novak lingers long enough to watch Rafa disappear slowly into the room – long enough to make sure nothing is wrong there, he tells himself – and then leaves.

-

"There should be four guys there," Andy says. "I put four there."

" _Nobody’s_ here," Novak says, for what feels like the tenth time. He glances out of the nurses’ station into the hall again; clear, so far, but time presses. "I’m telling you, they’re coming after him."

"God damn it," Andy says. "Okay, stay there. Cover him. I’m sending backup. You have a gun?"

"Yeah," Novak says.

"How about Rafa?"

"He’s a civilian," Novak says. "No, he doesn’t have a gun."

"Tell him he just got fucking drafted," says Andy, "and put him outside. Just tell him to stand there and look mean until we get there."

Novak could almost laugh. "Who, Rafa?"

"Get off the phone," is all Andy says, before he hangs up. Novak listens to the tone for a beat before he curses and heads back upstairs.

-

When he gets there Roger’s room is empty - even the bed is gone, and Novak experiences a moment of transcendent horror before he feels a touch on his arm and turns to see Rafa.

"We moved him," Rafa says, drawing Novak away and down the corridor to another, smaller room. 

"We?" Novak says, and then he sees the nurse busy over Roger, checking his pulse, hooking him up. Roger looks terrible: ashen and his immaculate hair dishevelled, the edges of bandages visible under the thin hospital sheet. If it wasn’t for the slight rise and fall of his chest, he could already be a corpse.

The nurse doesn’t look up, and Novak thinks about asking her if Roger will make it, but doesn’t. The way Roger looks now, he’s not sure he wants to hear her answer. Instead he looks at Rafa, who’s watching Roger like he can keep him alive through sheer force of will. Andy’s order dies on Novak’s lips.

"I’m going outside," he says, instead, and Rafa manages to look away from Roger. Novak shrugs. "It might keep them away for a while. Here," he finishes, extracting a little shiny black pistol from the pocket of his coat. "In case they get up here."

Rafa looks at the gun and shakes his head, and swallows. "No," he says. "I don’t do that any more."

"For god’s sake," says Novak. "If they get up here before we can get more people, they’re going to kill him. You understand that? Take the fucking gun."

"You need the gun outside," Rafa says.

"If I shoot outside, there’ll be police," Novak says. "Will you just take it?"

Rafa lets out a long, reluctant breath and takes the gun. He handles it with tentative distaste, as though it might explode in his hand, and for a red-hued moment Novak wants to hit him. Rafa is a crack shot.

"Keep your head," Novak tells him, before he goes. Rafa quirks the corner of his mouth, second-cousin to a smile.

"Be careful," is all he says.

-

The night is cold and damp, and Novak turns his collar up as much for protection against the chilly drizzle as for the added air of menace it affords. Civilian cars pass, spray hissing under their tyres. The engine noise gets Novak’s heart going every time, but it’s the sudden close-up noise of the door opening behind that nearly gives him a heart attack. He wheels round, and Rafa gives him a briefly apologetic look.

"You should be upstairs," says Novak, swallowing around the bitter tang of adrenaline. 

"The nurse is there," says Rafa. "I was worried about you."

"It’s all quiet down here," Novak says. "Andy’s guys will be here. Go back."

Rafa steps forward, stubborn. "Two is better than one, no?"

Novak learned a long time ago that it’s impossible to argue with Rafa when he’s got an idea between his teeth. "Fine," he says. "Just keep your hand on the gun."

Rafa turns his collar up and shoves his hands into his pockets and scowls out at the street, and he can look mean when he wants to – it’s one of the things that Novak has missed about him. One of many things. He thinks about saying something when a car rolls around the corner, black and sleek-bodied, stalking towards the hospital. Rafa steps forward again until his shoulder brushes Novak’s, and together they are a barrier against the palpable malicious intent of the car inching past the gates. Inside the car the dark shapes of the driver and passenger lean close against the window, and Novak raises his chin to let the streetlight brightness catch his face and slips a hand into his pocket like there’s something there more dangerous than lint. For a stuttering heart-beat it seems as though the car is about to stop, and then in a frustrated growl of acceleration it’s gone.

Novak bites back a humourless laugh and looks at Rafa. "Like old times," he says.

"Yeah," Rafa says, his mouth a thin, bitter line. "Like old times."

When Andy’s car rolls around the corner Novak allows himself a small, thin exhale between his teeth, as close to a sigh of relief as he will ever come.

-

"Not that it’s not great to see you, Rafa, and don’t take this the wrong way," Andy says, when they’re back at the house and convened in Roger’s study, "but you’ve been outside a long time. I don’t know if you should be here."

"I’ll vouch for him," Novak says, without looking at Rafa. He shrugs under Andy’s look and says, "He kept his head."

Andy gives Rafa another, contemplative look. "If you stay, you’re gonna hear things you don’t like."

"I'm staying," Rafa says, quietly, and then, before Andy can protest again, "They tried to kill Roger tonight. I stay."

"Fine," says Andy. He hands Rafa a crystal tumbler of something clear that almost certainly isn’t water and then hands a second to Novak, saying, "You did good. If you hadn’t been there they would have taken him out, and then we’d be even further up shit creek than we already are."

Novak sips the drink – _definitely_ not water, much needed – and says, "It’s bad?"

"It’s worse," says Andy. He settles into an armchair and unbuttons his jacket and stretches out his long legs across the plush carpet, incongruously at ease. "Marat is dead."

Novak swallows down hard on his shock. "You’re sure?"

"Oh," says Juan Carlos wryly, from his shadowed corner. "We’re sure."

"It was a good plan," says Andy, with grudging respect. "Take out Roger, that’s the brains. Take out Marat, that’s the muscle. They just got unlucky with their shot at Roger."

"Who is ‘they’?" Rafa asks. 

Andy looks at Novak and Novak says, "It’s Soderling, right?"

Rafa says, "Soderling?" and Novak remembers how long Rafa’s been on the outside.

"Soderling’s a new guy, a whaddatheycallit, a pezzonovante," Andy explains, with an quick impatient gesture that means _we don’t have time for this_. "He must have thought without our protection we posed too much of a threat to his business."

Rafa nods, slowly, taking it in. "What’s his business?"

"Drugs." Andy shrugs. "Roger thought it was too risky to move that way. Political cover, police; you know."

"They have police," Rafa says. "The nurse tonight, she say the police come to take away the men you left with Roger."

Andy nods, considering this; it was something they had suspected.

Novak drains his drink in a last burning swallow and then says, "You know, we need to take Soderling out." He glances over at Juan Carlos for support, finds it, and continues, "He knows that the only way we have enough weight to take on him and his backers is if Roger stays alive. He’s not going to stop trying to take him out."

He feels Rafa level him with a curious, measuring look that Novak avoids. When Rafa left they were barely made men; he can’t have known that Novak is a capo now. There are a lot of things that Rafa doesn’t know about Novak, now.

"How about this," Andy says, after a thoughtful pause. "We set up a meeting with Soderling through a neutral negotiator. We say we want to make a deal. We send Novak to do the negotiating. And halfway through, he blows the motherfucker away."

"Don’t send Novak," Rafa says, suddenly. "I’ll take the hit."

Novak’s throat goes dry, but Andy just laughs.

"Thanks for the offer, kid," he says, indulgent, like he’s not barely five years older than Rafa himself. "But this needs a pro."

"If you send Novak, they're gonna know it’s a trap," Rafa says. "You send me, they'll think like you, that I won’t do it."

"Close-up is messy," says Juan Carlos. "It’s not what you’re used to."

Rafa says, "I could do it," in a dark, level voice that makes Novak believe he could. 

"Roger would go crazy," says Andy.

Rafa shrugs. "Roger was shot."

-

"I can’t believe you’re doing this," Novak says, later, when it’s just him and Andy in the study, eating pasta from bowls balanced on their knees because it feels somehow too disrespectful to use Roger’s huge oak desk. "Roger will kill you."

"If Roger makes it back to kill me, I’ll die a happy man," Andy returns, dryly. He wipes bread across the leftover sauce and oil on his plate and chews it contemplatively. "Besides," he says, "the kid’s right. It’s the perfect set-up. Everyone in the city knows his rep."

"What if they take advantage of it," Novak says. "What if _they_ come in guns blazing."

Andy shakes his head. "Taking Rafa out’s not worth the trouble to them. Are you gonna eat that?"

Novak hands his half-eaten pasta over and watches Andy demolish that, too. "Jesus, you can eat."

"It’s stress," Andy says. "And a high, what’s it called, metabolism."

"You’ll die of a heart attack before they ever get you," says Novak.

"I’m fit as an athlete," Andy says, patting his flat, hard stomach. "You worry too much."

"Imagine if I didn’t," says Novak. 

Andy brushes his hands clean of crumbs and puts the two empty bowls down on the carpet –Novak can almost see Roger’s wordless disapproval, but he says nothing – and then he leans back in his chair and says, "Listen, Nole, this is gonna get bloody. I mean, it’s going to be bad like none of us have ever seen. And I’m good, but I’m no Roger, and Juan Carlos is not a wartime _consigliere_. They took our legs out from under us when they got Marat. This could be all our lives."

"It’s that close?"

"We’re on the edge," says Andy, bluntly. "Listen, I get it, I know you and Rafa go way back, but this is the only way I see for us to get out of this. Now what you have to do is get him up to speed. He cannot get squeamish about this. If his balls shrink up halfway through we’re all fucked."

"You know him better than that," Novak chides, lightly.

"We did," says Andy. "But he left."

-

"Try this," Novak says, handing Rafa the revolver. Rafa takes it, with no false delicacy this time. He tests the weight of it in one hand, and Novak watches him, the determined set of his jaw and the darkness of his eyes.

He says, before he can stop himself, "Why are you doing this?" 

Rafa pushes out the chamber and sights down the empty shafts, runs his fingers over the separate parts of the gun with an unconscious ease that’s all muscle-memory.

"I owe Roger," is all he says.

There are so many things that Novak wants to say. _I hated you for leaving_ , and _I missed you_ and _don’t do this_. They crowd his throat and in the end he coughs tightly and says, "The trigger’s a little tight, so be careful of that."

Rafa nods once and snaps the chamber back into place, sights down the snubbed barrel, and tests the trigger gently; not enough to discharge it, just enough to learn the tension.

"Two bullets each," Novak explains. His own voice sounds strained. "Straight to the head, no hesitation. Then drop the gun."

Rafa glances up. "Fingerprints?"

"It’s taped," says Novak. "No prints. You just drop it and walk away."

Rafa examines the gun a little more and says, "You remember when we were learning to shoot together?"

Novak huffs something kin to a laugh. "I remember I was so skinny the kick knocked me over the first time," he says.

"You were a good shot," Rafa says.

"You were a better one," says Novak. And then, because he’s never been good at keeping quiet when he really should, he says, "I missed you. I mean, when you left."

Rafa pauses a beat before he says, "I missed you, too, Nole," a secret shared. 

"You’ll be away even longer after this," Novak says. 

"Yeah," Rafa says. He puts the gun down on the table and then looks up at Novak and says, "You could come with me."

"Yeah," Novak says. "Right."

"I mean it," Rafa says. "Nole. Come with me."

And he wants to. He aches with wanting it, and Rafa, and all the things they might have been for each other. _Might have been_. Rafa walked away and Novak didn't; he stayed, and learned that there are things you can't run from, that you carry with you. 

"I can't," he says. His voice is steady. He can't look at Rafa.

"Novak."

"Don't," Novak says, and Rafa doesn't.

-

He hears the gunshots – one-two, pause, one-two – and then there’s Rafa, shoving open the door and walking towards the car with stiff, jerky movements, like he’s having trouble keeping himself from breaking into a run. It’s late and there are only a couple of people around, and none of them do a damn thing to stop him.

"Drive," is all Rafa says when he’s in the passenger seat and the door’s shut, and Novak doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls away fast, but smooth and clean, no screaming tyres. They’re blocks away when he finally notes the ache in his fingers and begins to relax his grip on the steering wheel, fraction by hard-fought fraction.

He looks over at Rafa, who's bolt upright in the seat like he might shatter apart if he doesn’t hold himself together. The road’s quiet and Novak risks a second glance. In the sudden illumination of a streetlight Novak sees blood on the collar of Rafa’s shirt. He swallows.

"Hey," he says, just to break the quiet. "If you’re going to throw up, mind the upholstery."

Rafa stays silent. Novak glances over again and sees that Rafa’s knee is trembling. 

"Hey," he says again, and reaches over. He finds Rafa’s wrist in the dark car and grips it tight. Rafa flinches under the touch but Novak holds on. "Hey, it’s over now. You’re okay," he says, in the soothing voice like you’d use to gentle a skittish animal. He can feel the vibration of nervous energy all through Rafa’s body, and the way it starts to bleed out of him, slow and steady as the car eats up the dark quiet miles between them and the airfield.

-

Juan Carlos is waiting for them at the airfield when they get there, the plane behind him ready and waiting. Juan Carlos extinguishes his cigarette and waves at them as they pull up, an impatient _hurry up_ movement. Novak gives the sharp bones of Rafa’s wrist a last squeeze before he lets go.

It’s a still night, not unpleasant, but Novak’s shirt sticks to his back with a cool sweat that makes him shudder as he and Rafa head from the car over to the staircase leading up into the little sleek plane that will take Rafa away, maybe forever. 

"It’s done?" Juan Carlos asks, when they’re close enough to be heard.

"It’s done," Rafa says, low and rough, the first thing he’s said since the diner.

Juan Carlos nods. "Good. Let’s go."

Rafa steps forward to grip the handrail and takes the first step up, and Novak’s heart and stomach twist with the sudden conviction that he will never see Rafa again. That this will be the last thing he remembers: Rafa with blood on his collar, walking away.

"Wait," he says, reaching out to grip the handrail like that will make the plane stop, make everything stop, and Rafa turns, backlit by the cabin light into something remote, unreachable. Novak can think of a hundred different things he wants to say, but somehow he ends up with, "Your fiancée – Xisca – do you want me to talk to her?"

"No," says Rafa, with a blunt little shake of the head. "Don’t tell her anything."

There’s a blankness in him then that makes Novak say, "She’s not your fiancée, is she?"

The corner of Rafa’s mouth moves in an abortive, mirthless smile. "No." 

The watch each other for a long moment. Then Rafa says, "What will you do now?"

Novak is having trouble thinking beyond this moment. The future is like the world outside of this airfield, black and remote, threatening. 

"Survive," he says.

For a second Rafa hesitates as though he’s about to speak before Juan Carlos clears his throat and says, "Hey, ladies, we’re on a tight schedule, here," his voice harsh over the engine noise.

Novak swallows down all the other things he wants to say, and what he’s left with is, "Keep your head," delivered with all the thin-lipped smile he can manufacture, now.

Rafa’s attempt is barely better. "Be careful," he says, and then he turns and walks away, again.

**Author's Note:**

> What's that? Do I know that this fic is a scene-by-scene hack retelling of _The Godfather Part I_ with tennis players in it? Ask me how many times I've seen _The Godfather Part I_ , and you'll understand so much more.


End file.
